


Of Wolves and Men

by coffeeandcas



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Animal Attack, Cuddling & Snuggling, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Smut, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22198705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandcas/pseuds/coffeeandcas
Summary: When Jaskier is injured on a hunt, Geralt is forced to confront his feelings for the bard - and is deeply by shocked by Jaskier's response.This story assumes that Geralt and Jaskier didn't spent almost a decade apart, and that instead they spent their time hunting monsters together. This takes place during that time.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 1014





	Of Wolves and Men

“Geralt?”

Silence. 

“Uh, Geralt?”

More of the same, and Jaskier clears his throat for attention. 

“ _ Geralt _ !”

“What, bard?”

“Could we stop awhile? I don’t have the right footwear on for this journey and my feet are rather-“

“We don’t stop until nightfall.”

“Right. Right. And that’s in how many hours?”

Silence again, and Jaskier huffs in displeasure, shifting his weight from one side to the other as he walks, grumbling under his breath both at Geralt’s stubborn rudeness and his own stupidity. They’ve been travelling for two days now, on the tail of some horrible creature Geralt will no doubt dispatch in a heartbeat then they’ll have to travel all the way back, and Jaskier is exhausted. As always, Geralt is practically mute so he’s had to entertain himself while the witcher rides on up ahead. 

To try and distract himself from the pain in his feet, he removes his lute from his back and strums it quietly, already composing his next tune in his head. Soon, he’s got himself carried away and is singing to himself, reasonably proud of the song he’s come up with. It has the makings of one of his greatest ballads...

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s gruff murmur comes from up ahead and he stops playing to listen. “Unless you want every wolf in this valley to have your balls for breakfast, I suggest you shut the fuck up.”

“Oh, that’s nice!” Jaskier halts indignantly, then has to scamper you keep up when Geralt doesn’t even turn, let alone still his horse. “I’m just trying to provide some light entertainment, a companion piece if you will, and this is the thanks I get.”

He’s speaking rather loudly, louder than he intended, and his voice bounces off the rocky walls of the valley. But he’s pissed - Geralt is always such a pain in the ass, always thinks he’s in the right, and always,  _ always _ gets his way. Not this time. 

“I’m getting a little tired of this, Geralt.” Jaskier says, raising his voice a little more than strictly necessary. “All I ever do is try to be a good travel companion, try to reinvent your image - which you’ve never thanked me for, by the way - and all I get in return is grumbling. Maybe it’s me who should be rethinking my travel companion.”

Geralt tugs Roach to a halt and Jaskier stops a few feet behind, optimistically triumphant. Perhaps this time, he’s actually got through to the Witcher. He persists. 

“You don’t have to be so cantankerous all the time. It’s no wonder I’m your only friend - I imagine all the others couldn’t stand your sunny disposition. And I know, I know, you’re not my  _ friend _ , but you  _ are _ , or at least I’m yours, and friends should be able to speak frankly with each other.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt doesn’t turn but he does raise a hand, and this only serves to incense the bard further. 

“You’re trying to silence me! Again! Geralt, I really don’t know why I-“

“Jaskier, shut the fuck up. Now.”

“ _ Geralt _ !”

The remainder of Jaskier’s indignant response fades on his lips as a low, rumbling snarl sounds from somewhere above him. Slowly, with a plunging sensation of fear swooping through his insides, he raises his gaze to an outcrop of rocks above them and his blood chills in his veins. Three large, furious-looking wolves are staring down at them, eyes seeming to glow red in the late afternoon sun, teeth bared and saliva dripping from their jaws. In the words of his companion: fuck. 

“Don’t move.” Geralt has seen them too, but then turns his head to look behind Jaskier. “Do not move.”

Slowly he draws his sword, dismounting Roach in one smooth movement, and Jaskier ignores him entirely in favour of turning to see what Geralt is looking at - then immediately wishes he hadn’t. A wolf, larger than the other three, is standing a short distance away with its eyes fixed firmly on him and its jaws hanging open as though ready for its evening meal. Jaskier’s heart feels as though it stops in his chest, then restarts at a painfully fast rhythm. 

“Shit.  _ Shit _ !” Backing up quickly, Jaskier spins on his heel and makes a run for it back the way they came, back into the valley. “Geralt!”

“Jaskier!” He hears a deep shout aimed in his direction. “Don’t run! Stand your ground and they won’t attack!”

“Stand my fucking... are you insane?!” He leaps over a rock, stumbles and feels his ankle twist, and behind him he’s certain he hears the snap of sharp jaws much too close for comfort. “ _ Geralt _ ! Do something!”

His lute falls to the ground somewhere but pure, unadulterated fear keeps him from turning back to see where. He’s sure he’s never run this fast in his life, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he hears the sound of the wolf’s paws hitting dirt behind him; too close,  _ far _ too close. He imagines he can smell the beast - or maybe he actually can. Pungent and rich and  _ disgusting _ . It’s gaining on him. 

“Geralt! Help!”

“Jaskier!”

There’s a note of something in Geralt’s shout and it’s that which makes Jaskier lose his focus and stumble. Geralt doesn’t sound like his usual calm, collected self on a hunt. He doesn’t sound in control. 

He sounds as terrified as Jaskier feels. 

His feet seem to go out from under him and he breaks his fall with his hand on a rock, and it’s then that the wolf strikes, throwing itself at him from behind and shoving him bodily into the rocks, teeth bared, eyes glittering, and Jaskier sees Geralt’s face flash before him. 

He sees, rather than feels, the bite. Sees yellowed teeth sink into the flesh of his arm, tearing cloth and skin and drawing bright, bubbling blood. Then the pain follows, combined with a high-pitched sound of agony that he realises is coming from his own mouth. The scent of the wolf is foul, sickly and pungent, and he retches with pain and fear as the animal’s jaw clamps tighter, as it shakes him by the arm and pain ricochets up his arm to his shoulder and his vision blues, whitens at the edges. He stumbles, tries to pull free, and his ankle gives way beneath him. As he falls, the beast is jerked backwards, away from him, teeth yanking from his forearm with a spray of blood and flesh, and he goes down hard onto the sandy ground. 

The back of his head collides with a rock and he remembers nothing more. 

*

Geralt dispatches the wolves quickly, one by one as they circle around himself and Jaskier who lies prone and lifeless at his feet, unresponsive to multiple shouts of his name. With every swipe of his sword, Geralt bites out a sharp ‘fuck!’ as multiple possibilities race through his mind. In his peripheral vision he can see blood staining the sand beneath his boots, a lot of it, and by the pallor of Jaskier’s skin he needs attention and quickly. The wolf responsible dies a slow, painful death with a howl of distress as Geralt holds it down by the scruff, his entire weight pinning the wolf bodily to the ground as he sinks a dagger into its heart, and only then does he stagger to his feet and lurch over to where Jaskier lies, still motionless and pale. Blood is pooling behind his head as well and Geralt swallows hard, fearing the worst. 

As he crashes to his knees beside the bard, Jaskier stirs with a low moan and Geralt pushes his stupid floppy hair back from his eyes, leaning down to try and get him to focus. 

“Jaskier. Stay awake, you hear me?”

“The wolf...” 

The response is weak and shaky, and Jaskier’s cornflower-blue eyes roll in his head as he tries listlessly to move. Geralt clamps a hand firmly over his forearm, stemming the worst of the bleeding, and drags the bard into a semi-sitting position. Jaskier lolls against him, his head ending up against Geralt’s neck, and from there it’s easy to lift him up and carry him towards Roach who is standing calmly a short distance away, unconcerned by the turn of events. 

“The wolf is dead, Jaskier. An end I won’t allow you to meet, not today.”

He wraps Jaskier’s arm quickly, tight enough for it to last until he’s found them some shelter, then hoists them both up onto Roach; soon they’re approaching a small cavern beneath a shelf of rock, nicely sheltered and somewhere they’ll be safe for the night. Geralt quickly assembled a pile of blankets, lies Jaskier down on them, then busies himself with building a fire to keep them both warm. The night is drawing in quickly, and with Jaskier’s injuries he’ll feel the cold much quicker and much more intensely. Geralt’s hands and forearms are sticky with blood, some belonging to the wolves and some to his companion, and he cleans them quickly with water from his hip flask. Then, with the fire burning at the mouth of the cave, Roach safely secured, and himself stripped down to his undershirt and pants, he turns his attention to Jaskier. 

Blood has soaked through the makeshift bandage and Geralt rewraps it, cleaning the deep bite wounds with a mixture of water and alcohol which makes Jaskier start in pain below him, lingering on the edge of consciousness. His lashes flutter on his pale cheeks and he moans quietly, under his breath. 

“Relax,” Geralt says, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. He doesn’t say much on a good day, but that’s intentional. He doesn’t waste his words or his breath without reason. But now, he doesn’t know what to say to comfort Jaskier because seeing him like this is causing a strange feeling to bloom in his chest. Is it concern? Irritation, possibly? No, definitely not. Harking back to a distant memory, he finally recognises the feeling for what it is: fear. Fear that Jaskier might not recover, fear that he himself may not be able to help him. It’s irrational, really - it’s a deep bite wound and probably a moderate concussion, morning he hasn’t dealt with in the past multiple times. But now, seeing Jaskier lying there in a pool of his own blood back in the valley, hearing his cry of pain, it’s awoken something inside him he long thought dormant: truly caring for another person. 

He grunts in mild irritation. Of course, of all the people he’s met over the years, the one he would choose to get close to, to allow himself to get close to, had to be the bard. The irritating, clingy, annoyingly lovable bard who Geralt puts up with for some reason he can’t pinpoint. Well, couldn’t until now. 

“Jaskier.” He pushes the dark hair back off Jaskier’s forehead, steadfastly ignoring the blood slicking the thick strands, and is rewarded with a flutter of eyelids and blue eyes focusing on his own amber ones. “Can you hear me?”

“Geralt...” Jaskier blinks owlishly, dazed. “What are you doing here?”

“Where exactly do you think ‘here’ is?” Geralt dips a rag into a bowl of water and wipes Jaskier’s brow with it. 

“The inn. I was here with...” Jaskier casts about vaguely then blinks up at Geralt. “Who was she again?”

“I don’t know. Hold still.”

“Why are you...” Jaskier ignores these request, pushing himself up onto his good elbow and peering at Geralt in the light of the flickering fire. He reaches out and brushed Geralt’s neck; his fingers come away sticky and red. “Is that blood?”

“Yes.”

“Your blood?”

“No.”

“Then who...  _ ouch _ ! What happened to my arm?” Jaskier scrabbles at it in the dark and Geralt jerks his hand back to stop him doing any further damage. “Geralt! Are those bandages?” He sits up further, looking around more wildly. “Are we in a cave? What happened?”

“Wolves.” Geralt still hasn’t let go of Jaskier’s hand. “One of them took a liking to you.”

“And you let it?!” Outraged, Jaskier pushes at Geralt’s chest then sways with dizziness. “Woah. My head hurts. Why does my head hurt?”

“You hit it on a rock. Lie down.” He helps Jaskier back down, and drags a blanket up to cover him, settling cross-legged beside him. “Rest. We’re safe here for tonight.”

After a while, Geralt feels the presence of Jaskier’s hand on his thigh, not pressing or pushing him away, or seeking attention. Just there, as though for comfort. As if on it’s own accord, his own hand moves down to rest on Jaskier’s forehead and they sit like that for a time, both of them watching the flickering flames and the shadows bouncing across the cave walls. 

“Am I going to be alright?” Jaskier asks quietly, and Geralt’s usual response would be something short, blunt, and probably cutting, making the bard feel stupid for asking. But not tonight. 

“Yes. You will.”

“I remember wolves...”

“Yes.”

“That’s what bit my arm, right? Nothing else, nothing more sinister?”

“No. Just a wolf.”

“ _ Just _ a wolf. Right. But I’m not going to turn into anything unnatural?”

“No. Not imminently.”

“Ha ha.” Silence. “Geralt?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For looking after me.”

He knows if he turns, he will see Jaskier looking up at him now instead of at the fire. He continues to stare steadfastly ahead, his heart pounding in his chest in a most unfamiliar way. 

“You’d have made a poor meal for them. I didn’t want them to be left disappointed.”

He flinched as Jaskier pinches his thigh, hard, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. 

“So that’s the only reason you saved me. To please the wolves. The now-dead wolves. That seems illogical, even for you.”

“Hmm.” 

“And there I was thinking we were finally friends.”

“Rest, Jaskier. You need it.”

“My voice wasn’t injured, not to my knowledge.”

“More’s the pity.”

“Oh! That’s nice! Here I am, on my deathbed, and you resort to insulting my singing yet again!”

“So you remember our conversation earlier.” Unable to stop himself, Geralt strokes Jaskier’s hair back and his thumb moves in circles on his forehead. “Your concussion cannot be that bad. I’m glad.”

“You are?” Quelled by the gesture, Jaskier’s voice has faded into something shy and bewildered. “I didn’t think you cared that much.”

“I do care, Jaskier. I do.” Geralt swallows then allows two more words to leave his lips. “Very much.”

Jaskier pushes himself up into a sitting position, wincing slightly and cradling his injured arm to his chest. The fire has warmed them both and they share flushed cheeks. 

“Geralt.”

“Yes?” 

Jaskier doesn’t say anything else, just watches the witcher in the light of the fire. They’re close now, close enough to share breath, and Geralt’s amber eyes seem to glitter in the dimness. Taking a breath, Jaskier leans in.

Geralt is prepared for the kiss, yet still it surprises him when Jaskier’s mouth meets his. It’s warm and affectionate, shy, and Geralt makes quick work of kissing him back, his hand coming to the back of Jaskier’s head to keep him there as the kiss deepens and goes on and on. When they break apart, they’re both short of breath and Jaskier is blinking, looking dazed again, but Geralt is certain it’s nothing to do with his head injury. 

“What... Geralt, what is this? What’s happening?”

“You tell me.” Geralt traces Jaskier’s bottom lip with a finger, filled suddenly with the desire to be close to the bard, to be undressed with him, to be so much more than just the tenuous friends that they’ve managed to become. And, judging by the look in Jaskier’s eyes, he isn’t the only one feeling this way. Jaskier licks his own lips, and Geralt follows the movement with his eyes. 

“Your arm...”

“I’m fine. Just be gentle.” Jaskier blinks then a slightly wicked smile crosses his lips. “On second thoughts, don’t.”

And that’s the go-ahead Geralt was seeking. On his knees, he drags Jaskier into his lap, kissing him with increasing desire and need, his hands all over the bard. Clothes are pulled off, fabric tearing in their haste, then Geralt has a hand in Jaskier’s hair, kissing him ferociously as a hand pushes down between them and cups his hard length. He feels a murmured ‘fuck’ against his lips then he’s being firmly stroked and can’t hold back a grunt of pleasure. He’d always taken the bard to be an insufferable womaniser, in spite of his dalliance with the Countess, but it’s clear Jaskier’s experience has been with men as well. His grip is firm and sure, his strokes perfectly timed, and Geralt holds on tightly to him, kissing him over and over and running his hands down the bare skin of the man’s back to cup his ass and pull him closer. Jaskier’s injured arm rests on Geralt’s shoulder, safely out of danger, his fingers entwined in Geralt’s hair, and they build into a rhythm, rocking together. The firelight elongates their shadows, sending them dancing across the cave walls, and outside Roach whinneys indignantly at being left out in the cold, but they notice neither of these things, too lost in each other. 

They come almost simultaneously, Jaskier spilling hot against Geralt’s stomach with a cry, with the witcher following him seconds later. He catches Jaskier in his arms and holds him there, enjoying the feeling of the bard’s warm skin against his own as they both pant for breath then slowly lie down beside each other in the pile of blankets Geralt has created for Jaskier to lie on. 

They don’t talk. They sleep awhile, and when Geralt wakes the fire has died to a dull glow and he can hear Roach snoring just outside the mouth of the cave. He reaches over to throw some sticks on the fire and feels Jaskier stir beside him, tugging the blankets closer and leaving Geralt bare to the cold night air. He should be getting up and dressing, turning away, regretting what they’ve done. He should be filled with distaste at allowing his guard down so much around someone he knows - and who knows him so well. But holding Jaskier against his side feels like the most natural thing in the world and instead of sitting up and turning away he moves closer, pulling some of the blankets back and hearing a low murmur of greeting as he does so. 

“How’s your head?” Geralt asks, turning to grip Jaskier’s jaw and turn his head so he can look into his eyes. “I don’t think you have a concussion.”

“I don’t either.” Jaskier blinks at him, smiling softly. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Oh, you know. Saving my life. The amazing sex. That kind of thing.”

“Any time.” Geralt kisses him softly, simultaneously hating how sentimental the bard is making him and enjoying exploring these new feelings and sensations. It’s been so long since he was this close to someone who mattered. A hand on his chest pushes him back just a little. 

“You mean that? Any time? Or was that in reference to the ‘saving my life’ thing? Because obviously I’d appreciate that, but the other thing...”

“I mean it. Stop talking.”

And he does mean it. Any time Jaskier wants him like this, he’s his. And he hopes it’s more often than not. He pulls Jaskier against his side. He won’t ask, but he thinks he knows exactly how often it will be. 

“Will you write a song about this?” There’s uncharacteristic mirth in Geralt’s tone. He already knows the answer. 

“But of course!” Jaskier sounds indignant at the suggestion that he might not. “But where to start?”

“Hmm.” Geralt turns and covers Jaskier’s naked body with his own again, kissing his neck and running firm hands down his sides. “Maybe I can entertain you while you decide...”

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my work and want writing updates, follow me on Twitter @coffeeandcas


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